These violent delights have violent ends
And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,
Which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately; long love doth so;
Love is the wisest of madness, able to suppress bitterness, sweetness able to heal.
Actors are the only honest hypocrites.
All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players.
The evil that men do lives after them; The good is often interred with their bones.
It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle where it lies,
Let us all ring fancy's knell
I'll begin it, Ding, dong, bell.
All that glitters is not gold;
Often have you heard that told:
Many a man his life has sold
But my outside to behold:
Gilded tombs do worms enfold
Had you been as wise as bold,
Your in limbs, in judgment old,
Your answer had not been in'scroll'd
Fare you well: your suit is cold.' Cold, indeed, and labour lost: Then, farewell, heat and welcome, frost!
But mine and mine I loved and mine I praised
And mine that I was proud on, mine so much
That I myself was to myself not mine.
Love is a smoke raised with the fume of sighs;
Being purged, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;
Being vexed, a sea nourished with loving tears.
What is it else? A madness most discreet,
A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.
It is an heretic that makes the fire, Not she which burns in't.